Don’t say you like him. Please please don’t say you like him.
Richard hesitates before answering her. When he does, he looks into her eyes. “He’s mostly just annoying. He was on my freshman hall, and when he and some guys applied to live in Taylor, they needed one more person and asked me. I figured, great house, I’ll have a single. I just wasn’t prepared for the level of partying, and when we got sanctioned, my parents were really upset about the fines.”
“Was it a lot?”
“A lot for us. I mean, I don’t tutor math because it’s fun; it’s my work--study job. But some of these other guys? Like Jordan? His parents just toss cash his way. I don’t think he even works during the summers.”
Haley is quiet. She’s only had one sort--of summer job herself. Part--time, scooping ice cream at the local stand in her town. She’s always been too busy attending soccer camps to commit to a real job. Her parents pretty much cover everything, including her books and spending money.
“Well. I’m glad you tutor math,” she says. This brightens the expression on his face.
“I don’t mean to be negative,” he says. “There’s just . . . a lot of money at this school. It surprised me. Not only because I’d never known people with this much money, like, parents who run hedge funds sort of thing, but because it sets a bar for what you do. It affects who you hang out with. Like, you don’t drink craft beer if you can only afford Natty Lite.”
“And Taylor is full of craft beer guys?”
“With the occasional barrel of Everclear thrown in for fun.”
I drank some stuff at a party and it really hit me.
Haley can’t help it. She not only hears Jenny, she sees her. Jenny--Mouse, toddling off to some crowded house party in the woods. Older guys ladling red cups with god--knows--what from a barrel.
Was Richard there that night?
She has to go. She needs to think.
She’s barely touched her Rice Krispies Treat. She rewraps it and tucks it in her pack for later.
“I’m chasing you away,” he says. “Sorry; don’t mean to be a downer.”
“No, not at all. I’m just tired. And I’d love to sleep, but I have to at least attempt some reading tonight.”
Richard nods, like he understands, but she can see he’s not buying this, either.
“So give me your number and I’ll text you about apples,” he says, pulling out his phone.
“Great,” she says, searching through her pack. “I’m pretty sure I can do that. Coach has let me off the hook for away games, so I think I’m free.” She hears the conditional in her own voice. Setting up excuses already. They clang. Lame. So lame.
They exchange numbers, and she gets up. He remains seated in the booth. He smiles as she slides away, his mouth closed. Like he’s determined to not seem like a guy who has just opened up to a girl who then decides to blow him off.
“See you,” she says.
“Right,” he answers.
Haley turns and walks toward the exit. Could this possibly suck more?
. . .
Jenny knows they call her Mouse. She knows she is invisible. And who can blame them? Hidden beneath the weight of her own books, still locked in the role of some parents’ good daughter, she barely knows herself.
Until now. She has this: a party invitation. From an older boy. Bring friends, he said. And suddenly, like some brilliant ignition, some curtain rising accompanied by drumroll, she appears. In a thigh--grazing dress with capital to expend.
She’s a girl worth knowing.
Tonight, anyway.
. . .
14
Richard Haley’s text on Saturday morning surprises Richard.
When she’d left the Grille so suddenly, Richard figured it was the last he’d see of her. What the hell? he’d thought as she walked away.
He hadn’t pegged her for a snob. One of the rich--girl--beautiful--people. They usually can sniff you out early on, realize you’re not going to be going along on the gang’s spring break trip to so--and--so’s parents’ house in Aruba, or you don’t have a car on campus, or you don’t have a season pass to the nearest ski resort—so sorry, gotta run, end this conversation fast. Because you, buddy, are not a wise investment of my time.
He’s met those girls before. Figured out how to spot them first and avoid wasting his time.
He’d thought Haley was different. But she’s a soccer girl. And probably a super jock. You don’t just show up and start as a freshman unless you’re pretty damn good.
So the sudden flip, when he mentioned work--study? All of a sudden she “thinks” she’s free for the apple picking she supposedly loves?
Then, she texts.
Apples?
It wakes him. Nine a.m. on Saturday morning. Taylor House is still. Most of his housemates won’t be up for hours. A few might be lucky to make it to lunch before the dining hall closes. Then again, they might get up and stumble across campus to the home football game. Cruise an assortment of tailgate parties for a one--p.m. breakfast of champions: guacamole and chips with some cold beer to wash it down.
He peers again at his phone.